jade schöner wohnen

chapter xv "by experience," says roger ascham, "wefind out a short way by a long wandering." not seldom that long wandering unfits usfor further travel, and of what use is our experience to us then? tess durbeyfield's experience was of thisincapacitating kind. at last she had learned what to do; but whowould now accept her doing? if before going to the d'urbervilles' shehad vigorously moved under the guidance of sundry gnomic texts and phrases known toher and to the world in general, no doubt she would never have been imposed on.

but it had not been in tess's power--nor isit in anybody's power--to feel the whole truth of golden opinions while it ispossible to profit by them. she--and how many more--might haveironically said to god with saint augustine: "thou hast counselled a bettercourse than thou hast permitted." she remained at her father's house duringthe winter months, plucking fowls, or cramming turkeys and geese, or makingclothes for her sisters and brothers out of some finery which d'urberville had givenher, and she had put by with contempt. apply to him she would not. but she would often clasp her hands behindher head and muse when she was supposed to

be working hard. she philosophically noted dates as theycame past in the revolution of the year; the disastrous night of her undoing attrantridge with its dark background of the chase; also the dates of the baby's birth and death; also her own birthday; and everyother day individualized by incidents in which she had taken some share. she suddenly thought one afternoon, whenlooking in the glass at her fairness, that there was yet another date, of greaterimportance to her than those; that of her own death, when all these charms would have

disappeared; a day which lay sly and unseenamong all the other days of the year, giving no sign or sound when she annuallypassed over it; but not the less surely there. when was it?why did she not feel the chill of each yearly encounter with such a cold relation? she had jeremy taylor's thought that sometime in the future those who had known her would say: "it is the ----th, the day thatpoor tess durbeyfield died"; and there would be nothing singular to their minds inthe statement. of that day, doomed to be her terminus intime through all the ages, she did not know

the place in month, week, season or year. almost at a leap tess thus changed fromsimple girl to complex woman. symbols of reflectiveness passed into herface, and a note of tragedy at times into her voice. her eyes grew larger and more eloquent. she became what would have been called afine creature; her aspect was fair and arresting; her soul that of a woman whomthe turbulent experiences of the last year or two had quite failed to demoralize. but for the world's opinion thoseexperiences would have been simply a

liberal education. she had held so aloof of late that hertrouble, never generally known, was nearly forgotten in marlott. but it became evident to her that she couldnever be really comfortable again in a place which had seen the collapse of herfamily's attempt to "claim kin"--and, through her, even closer union--with therich d'urbervilles. at least she could not be comfortable theretill long years should have obliterated her keen consciousness of it. yet even now tess felt the pulse of hopefullife still warm within her; she might be

happy in some nook which had no memories. to escape the past and all that appertainedthereto was to annihilate it, and to do that she would have to get away.was once lost always lost really true of chastity? she would ask herself. she might prove it false if she could veilbygones. the recuperative power which pervadedorganic nature was surely not denied to maidenhood alone. she waited a long time without findingopportunity for a new departure. a particularly fine spring came round, andthe stir of germination was almost audible

in the buds; it moved her, as it moved thewild animals, and made her passionate to go. at last, one day in early may, a letterreached her from a former friend of her mother's, to whom she had addressedinquiries long before--a person whom she had never seen--that a skilful milkmaid was required at a dairy-house many miles to thesouthward, and that the dairyman would be glad to have her for the summer months. it was not quite so far off as could havebeen wished; but it was probably far enough, her radius of movement and reputehaving been so small.

to persons of limited spheres, miles are asgeographical degrees, parishes as counties, counties as provinces and kingdoms. on one point she was resolved: there shouldbe no more d'urberville air-castles in the dreams and deeds of her new life.she would be the dairymaid tess, and nothing more. her mother knew tess's feeling on thispoint so well, though no words had passed between them on the subject, that she neveralluded to the knightly ancestry now. yet such is human inconsistency that one ofthe interests of the new place to her was the accidental virtues of its lying nearher forefathers' country (for they were not

blakemore men, though her mother wasblakemore to the bone). the dairy called talbothays, for which shewas bound, stood not remotely from some of the former estates of the d'urbervilles,near the great family vaults of her granddames and their powerful husbands. she would be able to look at them, andthink not only that d'urberville, like babylon, had fallen, but that theindividual innocence of a humble descendant could lapse as silently. all the while she wondered if any strangegood thing might come of her being in her ancestral land; and some spirit within herrose automatically as the sap in the

twigs. it was unexpected youth, surging up anewafter its temporary check, and bringing with it hope, and the invincible instincttowards self-delight. end of phase the second > chapter xvi on a thyme-scented, bird-hatching morningin may, between two and three years after the return from trantridge--silent,reconstructive years for tess durbeyfield-- she left her home for the second time.

having packed up her luggage so that itcould be sent to her later, she started in a hired trap for the little town ofstourcastle, through which it was necessary to pass on her journey, now in a direction almost opposite to that of her firstadventuring. on the curve of the nearest hill she lookedback regretfully at marlott and her father's house, although she had been soanxious to get away. her kindred dwelling there would probablycontinue their daily lives as heretofore, with no great diminution of pleasure intheir consciousness, although she would be far off, and they deprived of her smile.

in a few days the children would engage intheir games as merrily as ever, without the sense of any gap left by her departure. this leaving of the younger children shehad decided to be for the best; were she to remain they would probably gain less goodby her precepts than harm by her example. she went through stourcastle withoutpausing and onward to a junction of highways, where she could await a carrier'svan that ran to the south-west; for the railways which engirdled this interior tract of country had never yet struckacross it. while waiting, however, there came along afarmer in his spring cart, driving

approximately in the direction that shewished to pursue. though he was a stranger to her sheaccepted his offer of a seat beside him, ignoring that its motive was a mere tributeto her countenance. he was going to weatherbury, and byaccompanying him thither she could walk the remainder of the distance instead oftravelling in the van by way of casterbridge. tess did not stop at weatherbury, afterthis long drive, further than to make a slight nondescript meal at noon at acottage to which the farmer recommended her.

thence she started on foot, basket in hand,to reach the wide upland of heath dividing this district from the low-lying meads of afurther valley in which the dairy stood that was the aim and end of her day'spilgrimage. tess had never before visited this part ofthe country, and yet she felt akin to the landscape. not so very far to the left of her shecould discern a dark patch in the scenery, which inquiry confirmed her in supposing tobe trees marking the environs of kingsbere- -in the church of which parish the bones of her ancestors--her useless ancestors--layentombed.

she had no admiration for them now; shealmost hated them for the dance they had led her; not a thing of all that had beentheirs did she retain but the old seal and spoon. "pooh--i have as much of mother as fatherin me!" she said. "all my prettiness comes from her, and shewas only a dairymaid." the journey over the intervening uplandsand lowlands of egdon, when she reached them, was a more troublesome walk than shehad anticipated, the distance being actually but a few miles. it was two hours, owing to sundry wrongturnings, ere she found herself on a summit

commanding the long-sought-for vale, thevalley of the great dairies, the valley in which milk and butter grew to rankness, and were produced more profusely, if lessdelicately, than at her home--the verdant plain so well watered by the river var orfroom. it was intrinsically different from thevale of little dairies, blackmoor vale, which, save during her disastrous sojournat trantridge, she had exclusively known till now. the world was drawn to a larger patternhere. the enclosures numbered fifty acres insteadof ten, the farmsteads were more extended,

the groups of cattle formed tribeshereabout; there only families. these myriads of cows stretching under hereyes from the far east to the far west outnumbered any she had ever seen at oneglance before. the green lea was speckled as thickly withthem as a canvas by van alsloot or sallaert with burghers. the ripe hue of the red and dun kineabsorbed the evening sunlight, which the white-coated animals returned to the eye inrays almost dazzling, even at the distant elevation on which she stood. the bird's-eye perspective before her wasnot so luxuriantly beautiful, perhaps, as

that other one which she knew so well; yetit was more cheering. it lacked the intensely blue atmosphere ofthe rival vale, and its heavy soils and scents; the new air was clear, bracing,ethereal. the river itself, which nourished the grassand cows of these renowned dairies, flowed not like the streams in blackmoor. those were slow, silent, often turbid;flowing over beds of mud into which the incautious wader might sink and vanishunawares. the froom waters were clear as the pureriver of life shown to the evangelist, rapid as the shadow of a cloud, with pebblyshallows that prattled to the sky all day

long. there the water-flower was the lily; thecrow-foot here. either the change in the quality of the airfrom heavy to light, or the sense of being amid new scenes where there were noinvidious eyes upon her, sent up her spirits wonderfully. her hopes mingled with the sunshine in anideal photosphere which surrounded her as she bounded along against the soft southwind. she heard a pleasant voice in every breeze,and in every bird's note seemed to lurk a joy.

her face had latterly changed with changingstates of mind, continually fluctuating between beauty and ordinariness, accordingas the thoughts were gay or grave. one day she was pink and flawless; anotherpale and tragical. when she was pink she was feeling less thanwhen pale; her more perfect beauty accorded with her less elevated mood; her moreintense mood with her less perfect beauty. it was her best face physically that wasnow set against the south wind. the irresistible, universal, automatictendency to find sweet pleasure somewhere, which pervades all life, from the meanestto the highest, had at length mastered tess.

being even now only a young woman oftwenty, one who mentally and sentimentally had not finished growing, it was impossiblethat any event should have left upon her an impression that was not in time capable oftransmutation. and thus her spirits, and her thankfulness,and her hopes, rose higher and higher. she tried several ballads, but found theminadequate; till, recollecting the psalter that her eyes had so often wandered over ofa sunday morning before she had eaten of the tree of knowledge, she chanted: "o yesun and moon ... o ye stars ... ye green things upon theearth ... ye fowls of the air ... beasts and cattle ...

children of men ... bless ye the lord,praise him and magnify him for ever!" she suddenly stopped and murmured: "butperhaps i don't quite know the lord as yet." and probably the half-unconscious rhapsodywas a fetishistic utterance in a monotheistic setting; women whose chiefcompanions are the forms and forces of outdoor nature retain in their souls far more of the pagan fantasy of their remoteforefathers than of the systematized religion taught their race at later date. however, tess found at least approximateexpression for her feelings in the old

benedicite that she had lisped frominfancy; and it was enough. such high contentment with such a slightinitial performance as that of having started towards a means of independentliving was a part of the durbeyfield temperament. tess really wished to walk uprightly, whileher father did nothing of the kind; but she resembled him in being content withimmediate and small achievements, and in having no mind for laborious effort towards such petty social advancement as couldalone be effected by a family so heavily handicapped as the once powerfuld'urbervilles were now.

there was, it might be said, the energy ofher mother's unexpended family, as well as the natural energy of tess's years,rekindled after the experience which had so overwhelmed her for the time. let the truth be told--women do as a rulelive through such humiliations, and regain their spirits, and again look about themwith an interested eye. while there's life there's hope is aconviction not so entirely unknown to the "betrayed" as some amiable theorists wouldhave us believe. tess durbeyfield, then, in good heart, andfull of zest for life, descended the egdon slopes lower and lower towards the dairy ofher pilgrimage.

the marked difference, in the finalparticular, between the rival vales now showed itself. the secret of blackmoor was best discoveredfrom the heights around; to read aright the valley before her it was necessary todescend into its midst. when tess had accomplished this feat shefound herself to be standing on a carpeted level, which stretched to the east and westas far as the eye could reach. the river had stolen from the higher tractsand brought in particles to the vale all this horizontal land; and now, exhausted,aged, and attenuated, lay serpentining along through the midst of its formerspoils.

not quite sure of her direction, tess stoodstill upon the hemmed expanse of verdant flatness, like a fly on a billiard-table ofindefinite length, and of no more consequence to the surroundings than thatfly. the sole effect of her presence upon theplacid valley so far had been to excite the mind of a solitary heron, which, afterdescending to the ground not far from her path, stood with neck erect, looking ather. suddenly there arose from all parts of thelowland a prolonged and repeated call-- "waow! waow! waow!" from the furthest east to the furthest westthe cries spread as if by contagion,

accompanied in some cases by the barking ofa dog. it was not the expression of the valley'sconsciousness that beautiful tess had arrived, but the ordinary announcement ofmilking-time--half-past four o'clock, when the dairymen set about getting in the cows. the red and white herd nearest at hand,which had been phlegmatically waiting for the call, now trooped towards the steadingin the background, their great bags of milk swinging under them as they walked. tess followed slowly in their rear, andentered the barton by the open gate through which they had entered before her.

long thatched sheds stretched round theenclosure, their slopes encrusted with vivid green moss, and their eaves supportedby wooden posts rubbed to a glossy smoothness by the flanks of infinite cows and calves of bygone years, now passed toan oblivion almost inconceivable in its profundity. between the post were ranged the milchers,each exhibiting herself at the present moment to a whimsical eye in the rear as acircle on two stalks, down the centre of which a switch moved pendulum-wise; while the sun, lowering itself behind thispatient row, threw their shadows accurately

inwards upon the wall. thus it threw shadows of these obscure andhomely figures every evening with as much care over each contour as if it had beenthe profile of a court beauty on a palace wall; copied them as diligently as it had copied olympian shapes on marble facadeslong ago, or the outline of alexander, caesar, and the pharaohs.they were the less restful cows that were stalled. those that would stand still of their ownwill were milked in the middle of the yard, where many of such better behaved onesstood waiting now--all prime milchers, such

as were seldom seen out of this valley, and not always within it; nourished by thesucculent feed which the water-meads supplied at this prime season of the year. those of them that were spotted with whitereflected the sunshine in dazzling brilliancy, and the polished brass knobs oftheir horns glittered with something of military display. their large-veined udders hung ponderous assandbags, the teats sticking out like the legs of a gipsy's crock; and as each animallingered for her turn to arrive the milk oozed forth and fell in drops to theground.

chapter xvii the dairymaids and men had flocked downfrom their cottages and out of the dairy- house with the arrival of the cows from themeads; the maids walking in pattens, not on account of the weather, but to keep theirshoes above the mulch of the barton. each girl sat down on her three-leggedstool, her face sideways, her right cheek resting against the cow, and lookedmusingly along the animal's flank at tess as she approached. the male milkers, with hat-brims turneddown, resting flat on their foreheads and gazing on the ground, did not observe her.

one of these was a sturdy middle-aged man--whose long white "pinner" was somewhat finer and cleaner than the wraps of theothers, and whose jacket underneath had a presentable marketing aspect--the master- dairyman, of whom she was in quest, hisdouble character as a working milker and butter maker here during six days, and onthe seventh as a man in shining broad-cloth in his family pew at church, being somarked as to have inspired a rhyme: dairyman dick all the week:-- on sundaysmister richard crick. seeing tess standing at gaze he went acrossto her. the majority of dairymen have a crossmanner at milking time, but it happened

that mr crick was glad to get a new hand--for the days were busy ones now--and he received her warmly; inquiring for her mother and the rest of the family--(thoughthis as a matter of form merely, for in reality he had not been aware of mrsdurbeyfield's existence till apprised of the fact by a brief business-letter abouttess). "oh--ay, as a lad i knowed your part o' thecountry very well," he said terminatively. "though i've never been there since. and a aged woman of ninety that use to livenigh here, but is dead and gone long ago, told me that a family of some such name asyours in blackmoor vale came originally

from these parts, and that 'twere a old ancient race that had all but perished offthe earth--though the new generations didn't know it.but, lord, i took no notice of the old woman's ramblings, not i." "oh no--it is nothing," said tess.then the talk was of business only. "you can milk 'em clean, my maidy?i don't want my cows going azew at this time o' year." she reassured him on that point, and hesurveyed her up and down. she had been staying indoors a good deal,and her complexion had grown delicate.

"quite sure you can stand it? 'tis comfortable enough here for roughfolk; but we don't live in a cowcumber frame." she declared that she could stand it, andher zest and willingness seemed to win him over."well, i suppose you'll want a dish o' tay, or victuals of some sort, hey? not yet?well, do as ye like about it. but faith, if 'twas i, i should be as dryas a kex wi' travelling so far." "i'll begin milking now, to get my handin," said tess.

she drank a little milk as temporaryrefreshment--to the surprise--indeed, slight contempt--of dairyman crick, towhose mind it had apparently never occurred that milk was good as a beverage. "oh, if ye can swaller that, be it so," hesaid indifferently, while holding up the pail that she sipped from."'tis what i hain't touched for years--not i. rot the stuff; it would lie in my innerdslike lead. you can try your hand upon she," hepursued, nodding to the nearest cow. "not but what she do milk rather hard.

we've hard ones and we've easy ones, likeother folks. however, you'll find out that soon enough." when tess had changed her bonnet for ahood, and was really on her stool under the cow, and the milk was squirting from herfists into the pail, she appeared to feel that she really had laid a new foundationfor her future. the conviction bred serenity, her pulseslowed, and she was able to look about her. the milkers formed quite a little battalionof men and maids, the men operating on the hard-teated animals, the maids on thekindlier natures. it was a large dairy.

there were nearly a hundred milchers undercrick's management, all told; and of the herd the master-dairyman milked six oreight with his own hands, unless away from home. these were the cows that milked hardest ofall; for his journey-milkmen being more or less casually hired, he would not entrustthis half-dozen to their treatment, lest, from indifference, they should not milk them fully; nor to the maids, lest theyshould fail in the same way for lack of finger-grip; with the result that in courseof time the cows would "go azew"--that is, dry up.

it was not the loss for the moment thatmade slack milking so serious, but that with the decline of demand there camedecline, and ultimately cessation, of supply. after tess had settled down to her cowthere was for a time no talk in the barton, and not a sound interfered with the purr ofthe milk-jets into the numerous pails, except a momentary exclamation to one or other of the beasts requesting her to turnround or stand still. the only movements were those of themilkers' hands up and down, and the swing of the cows' tails.

thus they all worked on, encompassed by thevast flat mead which extended to either slope of the valley--a level landscapecompounded of old landscapes long forgotten, and, no doubt, differing in character very greatly from the landscapethey composed now. "to my thinking," said the dairyman, risingsuddenly from a cow he had just finished off, snatching up his three-legged stool inone hand and the pail in the other, and moving on to the next hard-yielder in his vicinity, "to my thinking, the cows don'tgie down their milk to-day as usual. upon my life, if winker do begin keepingback like this, she'll not be worth going

under by midsummer." "'tis because there's a new hand come amongus," said jonathan kail. "i've noticed such things afore.""to be sure. it may be so. i didn't think o't.""i've been told that it goes up into their horns at such times," said a dairymaid. "well, as to going up into their horns,"replied dairyman crick dubiously, as though even witchcraft might be limited byanatomical possibilities, "i couldn't say; i certainly could not.

but as nott cows will keep it back as wellas the horned ones, i don't quite agree to it.do ye know that riddle about the nott cows, jonathan? why do nott cows give less milk in a yearthan horned?" "i don't!" interposed the milkmaid, "why dothey?" "because there bain't so many of 'em," saidthe dairyman. "howsomever, these gam'sters do certainlykeep back their milk to-day. folks, we must lift up a stave or two--that's the only cure for't." songs were often resorted to in dairieshereabout as an enticement to the cows when

they showed signs of withholding theirusual yield; and the band of milkers at this request burst into melody--in purely business-like tones, it is true, and withno great spontaneity; the result, according to their own belief, being a decidedimprovement during the song's continuance. when they had gone through fourteen orfifteen verses of a cheerful ballad aboutb a murderer who was afraid to go to bed in thedark because he saw certain brimstone flames around him, one of the male milkerssaid-- "i wish singing on the stoop didn't use upso much of a man's wind! you should get your harp, sir; not but whata fiddle is best."

tess, who had given ear to this, thoughtthe words were addressed to the dairyman, but she was wrong. a reply, in the shape of "why?" came as itwere out of the belly of a dun cow in the stalls; it had been spoken by a milkerbehind the animal, whom she had not hitherto perceived. "oh yes; there's nothing like a fiddle,"said the dairyman. "though i do think that bulls are moremoved by a tune than cows--at least that's my experience. once there was an old aged man over atmellstock--william dewy by name--one of the

family that used to do a good deal ofbusiness as tranters over there--jonathan, do ye mind?--i knowed the man by sight as well as i know my own brother, in a mannerof speaking. well, this man was a coming home along froma wedding, where he had been playing his fiddle, one fine moonlight night, and forshortness' sake he took a cut across forty- acres, a field lying that way, where a bullwas out to grass. the bull seed william, and took after him,horns aground, begad; and though william runned his best, and hadn't much drink inhim (considering 'twas a wedding, and the folks well off), he found he'd never reach

the fence and get over in time to savehimself. well, as a last thought, he pulled out hisfiddle as he runned, and struck up a jig, turning to the bull, and backing towardsthe corner. the bull softened down, and stood still,looking hard at william dewy, who fiddled on and on; till a sort of a smile stoleover the bull's face. but no sooner did william stop his playingand turn to get over hedge than the bull would stop his smiling and lower his hornstowards the seat of william's breeches. well, william had to turn about and playon, willy-nilly; and 'twas only three o'clock in the world, and 'a knowed thatnobody would come that way for hours, and

he so leery and tired that 'a didn't knowwhat to do. when he had scraped till about four o'clockhe felt that he verily would have to give over soon, and he said to himself, 'there'sonly this last tune between me and eternal welfare! heaven save me, or i'm a done man.'well, then he called to mind how he'd seen the cattle kneel o' christmas eves in thedead o' night. it was not christmas eve then, but it cameinto his head to play a trick upon the bull. so he broke into the 'tivity hymm, just asat christmas carol-singing; when, lo and

behold, down went the bull on his bendedknees, in his ignorance, just as if 'twere the true 'tivity night and hour. as soon as his horned friend were down,william turned, clinked off like a long- dog, and jumped safe over hedge, before thepraying bull had got on his feet again to take after him. william used to say that he'd seen a manlook a fool a good many times, but never such a fool as that bull looked when hefound his pious feelings had been played upon, and 'twas not christmas eve.... yes, william dewy, that was the man's name;and i can tell you to a foot where's he a-

lying in mellstock churchyard at this verymoment--just between the second yew-tree and the north aisle." "it's a curious story; it carries us backto medieval times, when faith was a living thing!" the remark, singular for a dairy-yard, wasmurmured by the voice behind the dun cow; but as nobody understood the reference, nonotice was taken, except that the narrator seemed to think it might imply scepticismas to his tale. "well, 'tis quite true, sir, whether or no.i knowed the man well." "oh yes; i have no doubt of it," said theperson behind the dun cow.

tess's attention was thus attracted to thedairyman's interlocutor, of whom she could see but the merest patch, owing to hisburying his head so persistently in the flank of the milcher. she could not understand why he should beaddressed as "sir" even by the dairyman himself. but no explanation was discernible; heremained under the cow long enough to have milked three, uttering a privateejaculation now and then, as if he could not get on. "take it gentle, sir; take it gentle," saidthe dairyman.

"'tis knack, not strength, that does it.""so i find," said the other, standing up at last and stretching his arms. "i think i have finished her, however,though she made my fingers ache." tess could then see him at full length. he wore the ordinary white pinner andleather leggings of a dairy-farmer when milking, and his boots were clogged withthe mulch of the yard; but this was all his local livery. beneath it was something educated,reserved, subtle, sad, differing. but the details of his aspect weretemporarily thrust aside by the discovery

that he was one whom she had seen before. such vicissitudes had tess passed throughsince that time that for a moment she could not remember where she had met him; andthen it flashed upon her that he was the pedestrian who had joined in the club-dance at marlott--the passing stranger who hadcome she knew not whence, had danced with others but not with her, and slightinglyleft her, and gone on his way with his friends. the flood of memories brought back by thisrevival of an incident anterior to her troubles produced a momentary dismay lest,recognizing her also, he should by some

means discover her story. but it passed away when she found no signof remembrance in him. she saw by degrees that since their firstand only encounter his mobile face had grown more thoughtful, and had acquired ayoung man's shapely moustache and beard-- the latter of the palest straw colour where it began upon his cheeks, and deepening toa warm brown farther from its root. under his linen milking-pinner he wore adark velveteen jacket, cord breeches and gaiters, and a starched white shirt. without the milking-gear nobody could haveguessed what he was.

he might with equal probability have beenan eccentric landowner or a gentlemanly ploughman. that he was but a novice at dairy work shehad realized in a moment, from the time he had spent upon the milking of one cow. meanwhile many of the milkmaids had said toone another of the newcomer, "how pretty she is!" with something of real generosityand admiration, though with a half hope that the auditors would qualify the assertion--which, strictly speaking, theymight have done, prettiness being an inexact definition of what struck the eyein tess.

when the milking was finished for theevening they straggled indoors, where mrs crick, the dairyman's wife--who was toorespectable to go out milking herself, and wore a hot stuff gown in warm weather because the dairymaids wore prints--wasgiving an eye to the leads and things. only two or three of the maids, tesslearnt, slept in the dairy-house besides herself, most of the helpers going to theirhomes. she saw nothing at supper-time of thesuperior milker who had commented on the story, and asked no questions about him,the remainder of the evening being occupied in arranging her place in the bed-chamber.

it was a large room over the milk-house,some thirty feet long; the sleeping-cots of the other three indoor milkmaids being inthe same apartment. they were blooming young women, and, exceptone, rather older than herself. by bedtime tess was thoroughly tired, andfell asleep immediately. but one of the girls, who occupied anadjoining bed, was more wakeful than tess, and would insist upon relating to thelatter various particulars of the homestead into which she had just entered. the girl's whispered words mingled with theshades, and, to tess's drowsy mind, they seemed to be generated by the darkness inwhich they floated.

"mr angel clare--he that is learningmilking, and that plays the harp--never says much to us.he is a pa'son's son, and is too much taken up wi' his own thoughts to notice girls. he is the dairyman's pupil--learningfarming in all its branches. he has learnt sheep-farming at anotherplace, and he's now mastering dairy- work.... yes, he is quite the gentleman-born.his father is the reverent mr clare at emminster--a good many miles from here.""oh--i have heard of him," said her companion, now awake.

"a very earnest clergyman, is he not?""yes--that he is--the earnestest man in all wessex, they say--the last of the old lowchurch sort, they tell me--for all about here be what they call high. all his sons, except our mr clare, be madepa'sons too." tess had not at this hour the curiosity toask why the present mr clare was not made a parson like his brethren, and graduallyfell asleep again, the words of her informant coming to her along with the smell of the cheeses in the adjoiningcheeseloft, and the measured dripping of the whey from the wrings downstairs.

chapter xviii angel clare rises out of the past notaltogether as a distinct figure, but as an appreciative voice, a long regard of fixed,abstracted eyes, and a mobility of mouth somewhat too small and delicately lined for a man's, though with an unexpectedly firmclose of the lower lip now and then; enough to do away with any inference ofindecision. nevertheless, something nebulous,preoccupied, vague, in his bearing and regard, marked him as one who probably hadno very definite aim or concern about his material future.

yet as a lad people had said of him that hewas one who might do anything if he tried. he was the youngest son of his father, apoor parson at the other end of the county, and had arrived at talbothays dairy as asix months' pupil, after going the round of some other farms, his object being to acquire a practical skill in the variousprocesses of farming, with a view either to the colonies or the tenure of a home-farm,as circumstances might decide. his entry into the ranks of theagriculturists and breeders was a step in the young man's career which had beenanticipated neither by himself nor by others.

mr clare the elder, whose first wife haddied and left him a daughter, married a second late in life. this lady had somewhat unexpectedly broughthim three sons, so that between angel, the youngest, and his father the vicar thereseemed to be almost a missing generation. of these boys the aforesaid angel, thechild of his old age, was the only son who had not taken a university degree, thoughhe was the single one of them whose early promise might have done full justice to anacademical training. some two or three years before angel'sappearance at the marlott dance, on a day when he had left school and was pursuinghis studies at home, a parcel came to the

vicarage from the local bookseller's,directed to the reverend james clare. the vicar having opened it and found it tocontain a book, read a few pages; whereupon he jumped up from his seat and wentstraight to the shop with the book under his arm. "why has this been sent to my house?" heasked peremptorily, holding up the volume. "it was ordered, sir.""not by me, or any one belonging to me, i am happy to say." the shopkeeper looked into his order-book."oh, it has been misdirected, sir," he said."it was ordered by mr angel clare, and

should have been sent to him." mr clare winced as if he had been struck.he went home pale and dejected, and called angel into his study."look into this book, my boy," he said. "what do you know about it?" "i ordered it," said angel simply."what for?" "to read.""how can you think of reading it?" "how can i? why--it is a system of philosophy.there is no more moral, or even religious, work published.""yes--moral enough; i don't deny that.

but religious!--and for you, who intend tobe a minister of the gospel!" "since you have alluded to the matter,father," said the son, with anxious thought upon his face, "i should like to say, oncefor all, that i should prefer not to take orders. i fear i could not conscientiously do so.i love the church as one loves a parent. i shall always have the warmest affectionfor her. there is no institution for whose history ihave a deeper admiration; but i cannot honestly be ordained her minister, as mybrothers are, while she refuses to liberate her mind from an untenable redemptivetheolatry."

it had never occurred to thestraightforward and simple-minded vicar that one of his own flesh and blood couldcome to this! he was stultified, shocked, paralysed. and if angel were not going to enter thechurch, what was the use of sending him to cambridge? the university as a step to anything butordination seemed, to this man of fixed ideas, a preface without a volume. he was a man not merely religious, butdevout; a firm believer--not as the phrase is now elusively construed by theologicalthimble-riggers in the church and out of

it, but in the old and ardent sense of theevangelical school: one who could indeed opinethat the eternal and divine did, eighteen centuries agoin very truth... angel's father tried argument, persuasion,entreaty. "no, father; i cannot underwrite articlefour (leave alone the rest), taking it 'in the literal and grammatical sense' asrequired by the declaration; and, therefore, i can't be a parson in thepresent state of affairs," said angel. "my whole instinct in matters of religionis towards reconstruction; to quote your favorite epistle to the hebrews, 'theremoving of those things that are shaken,

as of things that are made, that thosethings which cannot be shaken may remain.'" his father grieved so deeply that it madeangel quite ill to see him. "what is the good of your mother and meeconomizing and stinting ourselves to give you a university education, if it is not tobe used for the honour and glory of god?" his father repeated. "why, that it may be used for the honourand glory of man, father." perhaps if angel had persevered he mighthave gone to cambridge like his brothers. but the vicar's view of that seat oflearning as a stepping-stone to orders alone was quite a family tradition; and sorooted was the idea in his mind that

perseverance began to appear to the sensitive son akin to an intent tomisappropriate a trust, and wrong the pious heads of the household, who had been andwere, as his father had hinted, compelled to exercise much thrift to carry out this uniform plan of education for the threeyoung men. "i will do without cambridge," said angelat last. "i feel that i have no right to go there inthe circumstances." the effects of this decisive debate werenot long in showing themselves. he spent years and years in desultorystudies, undertakings, and meditations; he

began to evince considerable indifferenceto social forms and observances. the material distinctions of rank andwealth he increasingly despised. even the "good old family" (to use afavourite phrase of a late local worthy) had no aroma for him unless there were goodnew resolutions in its representatives. as a balance to these austerities, when hewent to live in london to see what the world was like, and with a view topractising a profession or business there, he was carried off his head, and nearly entrapped by a woman much older thanhimself, though luckily he escaped not greatly the worse for the experience.

early association with country solitudeshad bred in him an unconquerable, and almost unreasonable, aversion to moderntown life, and shut him out from such success as he might have aspired to by following a mundane calling in theimpracticability of the spiritual one. but something had to be done; he had wastedmany valuable years; and having an acquaintance who was starting on a thrivinglife as a colonial farmer, it occurred to angel that this might be a lead in theright direction. farming, either in the colonies, america,or at home--farming, at any rate, after becoming well qualified for the business bya careful apprenticeship--that was a

vocation which would probably afford an independence without the sacrifice of whathe valued even more than a competency-- intellectual liberty. so we find angel clare at six-and-twentyhere at talbothays as a student of kine, and, as there were no houses near at handin which he could get a comfortable lodging, a boarder at the dairyman's. his room was an immense attic which ran thewhole length of the dairy-house. it could only be reached by a ladder fromthe cheese-loft, and had been closed up for a long time till he arrived and selected itas his retreat.

here clare had plenty of space, and couldoften be heard by the dairy-folk pacing up and down when the household had gone torest. a portion was divided off at one end by acurtain, behind which was his bed, the outer part being furnished as a homelysitting-room. at first he lived up above entirely,reading a good deal, and strumming upon an old harp which he had bought at a sale,saying when in a bitter humour that he might have to get his living by it in thestreets some day. but he soon preferred to read human natureby taking his meals downstairs in the general dining-kitchen, with the dairymanand his wife, and the maids and men, who

all together formed a lively assembly; for though but few milking hands slept in thehouse, several joined the family at meals. the longer clare resided here the lessobjection had he to his company, and the more did he like to share quarters withthem in common. much to his surprise he took, indeed, areal delight in their companionship. the conventional farm-folk of hisimagination-- personified in the newspaper- press by the pitiable dummy known as hodge--were obliterated after a few days' residence. at close quarters no hodge was to be seen.at first, it is true, when clare's

intelligence was fresh from a contrastingsociety, these friends with whom he now hobnobbed seemed a little strange. sitting down as a level member of thedairyman's household seemed at the outset an undignified proceeding.the ideas, the modes, the surroundings, appeared retrogressive and unmeaning. but with living on there, day after day,the acute sojourner became conscious of a new aspect in the spectacle. without any objective change whatever,variety had taken the place of monotonousness.

his host and his host's household, his menand his maids, as they became intimately known to clare, began to differentiatethemselves as in a chemical process. the thought of pascal's was brought home tohim: "a mesure qu'on a plus d'esprit, on trouve qu'il y a plus d'hommes originaux.les gens du commun ne trouvent pas de difference entre les hommes." the typical and unvarying hodge ceased toexist. he had been disintegrated into a number ofvaried fellow-creatures--beings of many minds, beings infinite in difference; somehappy, many serene, a few depressed, one here and there bright even to genius, some

stupid, others wanton, others austere; somemutely miltonic, some potentially cromwellian--into men who had private viewsof each other, as he had of his friends; who could applaud or condemn each other, amuse or sadden themselves by thecontemplation of each other's foibles or vices; men every one of whom walked in hisown individual way the road to dusty death. unexpectedly he began to like the outdoorlife for its own sake, and for what it brought, apart from its bearing on his ownproposed career. considering his position he becamewonderfully free from the chronic melancholy which is taking hold of thecivilized races with the decline of belief

in a beneficent power. for the first time of late years he couldread as his musings inclined him, without any eye to cramming for a profession, sincethe few farming handbooks which he deemed it desirable to master occupied him butlittle time. he grew away from old associations, and sawsomething new in life and humanity. secondarily, he made close acquaintancewith phenomena which he had before known but darkly--the seasons in their moods,morning and evening, night and noon, winds in their different tempers, trees, waters and mists, shades and silences, and thevoices of inanimate things.

the early mornings were still sufficientlycool to render a fire acceptable in the large room wherein they breakfasted; and,by mrs crick's orders, who held that he was too genteel to mess at their table, it was angel clare's custom to sit in the yawningchimney-corner during the meal, his cup- and-saucer and plate being placed on ahinged flap at his elbow. the light from the long, wide, mullionedwindow opposite shone in upon his nook, and, assisted by a secondary light of coldblue quality which shone down the chimney, enabled him to read there easily wheneverdisposed to do so. between clare and the window was the tableat which his companions sat, their munching

profiles rising sharp against the panes;while to the side was the milk-house door, through which were visible the rectangular leads in rows, full to the brim with themorning's milk. at the further end the great churn could beseen revolving, and its slip-slopping heard--the moving power being discerniblethrough the window in the form of a spiritless horse walking in a circle anddriven by a boy. for several days after tess's arrivalclare, sitting abstractedly reading from some book, periodical, or piece of musicjust come by post, hardly noticed that she was present at table.

she talked so little, and the other maidstalked so much, that the babble did not strike him as possessing a new note, and hewas ever in the habit of neglecting the particulars of an outward scene for thegeneral impression. one day, however, when he had been conningone of his music-scores, and by force of imagination was hearing the tune in hishead, he lapsed into listlessness, and the music-sheet rolled to the hearth. he looked at the fire of logs, with its oneflame pirouetting on the top in a dying dance after the breakfast-cooking andboiling, and it seemed to jig to his inward tune; also at the two chimney crooks

dangling down from the cotterel, or cross-bar, plumed with soot, which quivered to the same melody; also at the half-emptykettle whining an accompaniment. the conversation at the table mixed in withhis phantasmal orchestra till he thought: "what a fluty voice one of those milkmaidshas! i suppose it is the new one." clare looked round upon her, seated withthe others. she was not looking towards him.indeed, owing to his long silence, his presence in the room was almost forgotten. "i don't know about ghosts," she wassaying; "but i do know that our souls can

be made to go outside our bodies when weare alive." the dairyman turned to her with his mouthfull, his eyes charged with serious inquiry, and his great knife and fork(breakfasts were breakfasts here) planted erect on the table, like the beginning of agallows. "what--really now?and is it so, maidy?" he said. "a very easy way to feel 'em go," continuedtess, "is to lie on the grass at night and look straight up at some big bright star;and, by fixing your mind upon it, you will soon find that you are hundreds and hundreds o' miles away from your body,which you don't seem to want at all."

the dairyman removed his hard gaze fromtess, and fixed it on his wife. "now that's a rum thing, christianer--hey? to think o' the miles i've vamped o'starlight nights these last thirty year, courting, or trading, or for doctor, or fornurse, and yet never had the least notion o' that till now, or feeled my soul rise somuch as an inch above my shirt-collar." the general attention being drawn to her,including that of the dairyman's pupil, tess flushed, and remarking evasively thatit was only a fancy, resumed her breakfast. clare continued to observe her. she soon finished her eating, and having aconsciousness that clare was regarding her,

began to trace imaginary patterns on thetablecloth with her forefinger with the constraint of a domestic animal thatperceives itself to be watched. "what a fresh and virginal daughter ofnature that milkmaid is!" he said to and then he seemed to discern in hersomething that was familiar, something which carried him back into a joyous andunforeseeing past, before the necessity of taking thought had made the heavens gray. he concluded that he had beheld her before;where he could not tell. a casual encounter during some countryramble it certainly had been, and he was not greatly curious about it.

but the circumstance was sufficient to leadhim to select tess in preference to the other pretty milkmaids when he wished tocontemplate contiguous womankind. chapter xix in general the cows were milked as theypresented themselves, without fancy or choice. but certain cows will show a fondness for aparticular pair of hands, sometimes carrying this predilection so far as torefuse to stand at all except to their favourite, the pail of a stranger beingunceremoniously kicked over. it was dairyman crick's rule to insist onbreaking down these partialities and

aversions by constant interchange, sinceotherwise, in the event of a milkman or maid going away from the dairy, he wasplaced in a difficulty. the maids' private aims, however, were thereverse of the dairyman's rule, the daily selection by each damsel of the eight orten cows to which she had grown accustomed rendering the operation on their willingudders surprisingly easy and effortless. tess, like her compeers, soon discoveredwhich of the cows had a preference for her style of manipulation, and her fingershaving become delicate from the long domiciliary imprisonments to which she had subjected herself at intervals during thelast two or three years, she would have

been glad to meet the milchers' views inthis respect. out of the whole ninety-five there wereeight in particular--dumpling, fancy, lofty, mist, old pretty, young pretty,tidy, and loud--who, though the teats of one or two were as hard as carrots, gave down to her with a readiness that made herwork on them a mere touch of the fingers. knowing, however, the dairyman's wish, sheendeavoured conscientiously to take the animals just as they came, expecting thevery hard yielders which she could not yet manage. but she soon found a curious correspondencebetween the ostensibly chance position of

the cows and her wishes in this matter,till she felt that their order could not be the result of accident. the dairyman's pupil had lent a hand ingetting the cows together of late, and at the fifth or sixth time she turned hereyes, as she rested against the cow, full of sly inquiry upon him. "mr clare, you have ranged the cows!" shesaid, blushing; and in making the accusation, symptoms of a smile gentlylifted her upper lip in spite of her, so as to show the tips of her teeth, the lowerlip remaining severely still. "well, it makes no difference," said he."you will always be here to milk them."

"do you think so? i hope i shall!but i don't know." she was angry with herself afterwards,thinking that he, unaware of her grave reasons for liking this seclusion, mighthave mistaken her meaning. she had spoken so earnestly to him, as ifhis presence were somehow a factor in her wish. her misgiving was such that at dusk, whenthe milking was over, she walked in the garden alone, to continue her regrets thatshe had disclosed to him her discovery of his considerateness.

it was a typical summer evening in june,the atmosphere being in such delicate equilibrium and so transmissive thatinanimate objects seemed endowed with two or three senses, if not five. there was no distinction between the nearand the far, and an auditor felt close to everything within the horizon. the soundlessness impressed her as apositive entity rather than as the mere negation of noise.it was broken by the strumming of strings. tess had heard those notes in the atticabove her head. dim, flattened, constrained by theirconfinement, they had never appealed to her

as now, when they wandered in the still airwith a stark quality like that of nudity. to speak absolutely, both instrument andexecution were poor; but the relative is all, and as she listened tess, like afascinated bird, could not leave the spot. far from leaving she drew up towards theperformer, keeping behind the hedge that he might not guess her presence. the outskirt of the garden in which tessfound herself had been left uncultivated for some years, and was now damp and rankwith juicy grass which sent up mists of pollen at a touch; and with tall blooming weeds emitting offensive smells--weedswhose red and yellow and purple hues formed

a polychrome as dazzling as that ofcultivated flowers. she went stealthily as a cat through thisprofusion of growth, gathering cuckoo- spittle on her skirts, cracking snails thatwere underfoot, staining her hands with thistle-milk and slug-slime, and rubbing off upon her naked arms sticky blightswhich, though snow-white on the apple-tree trunks, made madder stains on her skin;thus she drew quite near to clare, still unobserved of him. tess was conscious of neither time norspace. the exaltation which she had described asbeing producible at will by gazing at a

star came now without any determination ofhers; she undulated upon the thin notes of the second-hand harp, and their harmonies passed like breezes through her, bringingtears into her eyes. the floating pollen seemed to be his notesmade visible, and the dampness of the garden the weeping of the garden'ssensibility. though near nightfall, the rank-smellingweed-flowers glowed as if they would not close for intentness, and the waves ofcolour mixed with the waves of sound. the light which still shone was derivedmainly from a large hole in the western bank of cloud; it was like a piece of dayleft behind by accident, dusk having closed

in elsewhere. he concluded his plaintive melody, a verysimple performance, demanding no great skill; and she waited, thinking anothermight be begun. but, tired of playing, he had desultorilycome round the fence, and was rambling up behind her.tess, her cheeks on fire, moved away furtively, as if hardly moving at all. angel, however, saw her light summer gown,and he spoke; his low tones reaching her, though he was some distance off."what makes you draw off in that way, tess?" said he.

"are you afraid?""oh no, sir--not of outdoor things; especially just now when the apple-bloothis falling, and everything is so green." "but you have your indoor fears--eh?" "well--yes, sir.""what of?" "i couldn't quite say.""the milk turning sour?" "no." "life in general?""yes, sir." "ah--so have i, very often.this hobble of being alive is rather serious, don't you think so?"

"it is--now you put it that way.""all the same, i shouldn't have expected a young girl like you to see it so just yet.how is it you do?" she maintained a hesitating silence. "come, tess, tell me in confidence."she thought that he meant what were the aspects of things to her, and repliedshyly-- "the trees have inquisitive eyes, haven'tthey?--that is, seem as if they had. and the river says,--'why do ye trouble mewith your looks?' and you seem to see numbers of to-morrowsjust all in a line, the first of them the biggest and clearest, the others gettingsmaller and smaller as they stand farther

away; but they all seem very fierce andcruel and as if they said, 'i'm coming! beware of me!beware of me!'... but you, sir, can raise up dreams with yourmusic, and drive all such horrid fancies away!" he was surprised to find this young woman--who though but a milkmaid had just that touch of rarity about her which might makeher the envied of her housemates--shaping such sad imaginings. she was expressing in her own nativephrases--assisted a little by her sixth standard training--feelings which mightalmost have been called those of the age--

the ache of modernism. the perception arrested him less when hereflected that what are called advanced ideas are really in great part but thelatest fashion in definition--a more accurate expression, by words in logy and ism, of sensations which men and women havevaguely grasped for centuries. still, it was strange that they should havecome to her while yet so young; more than strange; it was impressive, interesting,pathetic. not guessing the cause, there was nothingto remind him that experience is as to intensity, and not as to duration.tess's passing corporeal blight had been

her mental harvest. tess, on her part, could not understand whya man of clerical family and good education, and above physical want, shouldlook upon it as a mishap to be alive. for the unhappy pilgrim herself there wasvery good reason. but how could this admirable and poetic manever have descended into the valley of humiliation, have felt with the man of uz--as she herself had felt two or three years ago--"my soul chooseth strangling and deathrather than my life. i loathe it; i would not live alway."it was true that he was at present out of his class.

but she knew that was only because, likepeter the great in a shipwright's yard, he was studying what he wanted to know. he did not milk cows because he was obligedto milk cows, but because he was learning to be a rich and prosperous dairyman,landowner, agriculturist, and breeder of cattle. he would become an american or australianabraham, commanding like a monarch his flocks and his herds, his spotted and hisring-straked, his men-servants and his maids. at times, nevertheless, it did seemunaccountable to her that a decidedly

bookish, musical, thinking young man shouldhave chosen deliberately to be a farmer, and not a clergyman, like his father andbrothers. thus, neither having the clue to theother's secret, they were respectively puzzled at what each revealed, and awaitednew knowledge of each other's character and mood without attempting to pry into eachother's history. every day, every hour, brought to him onemore little stroke of her nature, and to her one more of his. tess was trying to lead a repressed life,but she little divined the strength of her own vitality.at first tess seemed to regard angel clare

as an intelligence rather than as a man. as such she compared him with herself; andat every discovery of the abundance of his illuminations, of the distance between herown modest mental standpoint and the unmeasurable, andean altitude of his, she became quite dejected, disheartened fromall further effort on her own part whatever. he observed her dejection one day, when hehad casually mentioned something to her about pastoral life in ancient greece.she was gathering the buds called "lords and ladies" from the bank while he spoke.

"why do you look so woebegone all of asudden?" he asked. "oh, 'tis only--about my own self," shesaid, with a frail laugh of sadness, fitfully beginning to peel "a lady"meanwhile. "just a sense of what might have been withme! my life looks as if it had been wasted forwant of chances! when i see what you know, what you haveread, and seen, and thought, i feel what a nothing i am!i'm like the poor queen of sheba who lived in the bible. there is no more spirit in me.""bless my soul, don't go troubling about

that! why," he said with some enthusiasm, "ishould be only too glad, my dear tess, to help you to anything in the way of history,or any line of reading you would like to take up--" "it is a lady again," interrupted she,holding out the bud she had peeled. "what?""i meant that there are always more ladies than lords when you come to peel them." "never mind about the lords and ladies.would you like to take up any course of study--history, for example?"

"sometimes i feel i don't want to knowanything more about it than i know already.""why not?" "because what's the use of learning that iam one of a long row only--finding out that there is set down in some old book somebodyjust like me, and to know that i shall only act her part; making me sad, that's all. the best is not to remember that yournature and your past doings have been just like thousands' and thousands', and thatyour coming life and doings 'll be like thousands's and thousands'." "what, really, then, you don't want tolearn anything?"

"i shouldn't mind learning why--why the sundo shine on the just and the unjust alike," she answered, with a slight quaver in hervoice. "but that's what books will not tell me." "tess, fie for such bitterness!"of course he spoke with a conventional sense of duty only, for that sort ofwondering had not been unknown to himself in bygone days. and as he looked at the unpracticed mouthand lips, he thought that such a daughter of the soil could only have caught up thesentiment by rote. she went on peeling the lords and ladiestill clare, regarding for a moment the

wave-like curl of her lashes as theydropped with her bent gaze on her soft cheek, lingeringly went away. when he was gone she stood awhile,thoughtfully peeling the last bud; and then, awakening from her reverie, flung itand all the crowd of floral nobility impatiently on the ground, in an ebullition of displeasure with herself for herniaiserie, and with a quickening warmth in her heart of hearts.how stupid he must think her! in an access of hunger for his good opinionshe bethought herself of what she had latterly endeavoured to forget, sounpleasant had been its issues--the

identity of her family with that of theknightly d'urbervilles. barren attribute as it was, disastrous asits discovery had been in many ways to her, perhaps mr clare, as a gentleman and astudent of history, would respect her sufficiently to forget her childish conduct with the lords and ladies if he knew thatthose purbeck-marble and alabaster people in kingsbere church really represented herown lineal forefathers; that she was no spurious d'urberville, compounded of money and ambition like those at trantridge, buttrue d'urberville to the bone. but, before venturing to make therevelation, dubious tess indirectly sounded

the dairyman as to its possible effect uponmr clare, by asking the former if mr clare had any great respect for old county families when they had lost all their moneyand land. "mr clare," said the dairyman emphatically,"is one of the most rebellest rozums you ever knowed--not a bit like the rest of hisfamily; and if there's one thing that he do hate more than another 'tis the notion ofwhat's called a' old family. he says that it stands to reason that oldfamilies have done their spurt of work in past days, and can't have anything left in'em now. there's the billets and the drenkhards andthe greys and the st quintins and the

hardys and the goulds, who used to own thelands for miles down this valley; you could buy 'em all up now for an old song a'most. why, our little retty priddle here, youknow, is one of the paridelles--the old family that used to own lots o' the landsout by king's hintock, now owned by the earl o' wessex, afore even he or his washeard of. well, mr clare found this out, and spokequite scornful to the poor girl for days. 'ah!' he says to her, 'you'll never make agood dairymaid! all your skill was used up ages ago inpalestine, and you must lie fallow for a thousand years to git strength for moredeeds!'

a boy came here t'other day asking for ajob, and said his name was matt, and when we asked him his surname he said he'd neverheard that 'a had any surname, and when we asked why, he said he supposed his folkshadn't been 'stablished long enough. 'ah! you're the very boy i want!' says mrclare, jumping up and shaking hands wi'en; 'i've great hopes of you;' and gave himhalf-a-crown. o no! he can't stomach old families!" after hearing this caricature of clare'sopinion poor tess was glad that she had not said a word in a weak moment about herfamily--even though it was so unusually old almost to have gone round the circle andbecome a new one.

besides, another diary-girl was as good asshe, it seemed, in that respect. she held her tongue about the d'urbervillevault and the knight of the conqueror whose name she bore. the insight afforded into clare's charactersuggested to her that it was largely owing to her supposed untraditional newness thatshe had won interest in his eyes. chapter xx the season developed and matured. another year's instalment of flowers,leaves, nightingales, thrushes, finches, and such ephemeral creatures, took up theirpositions where only a year ago others had

stood in their place when these were nothing more than germs and inorganicparticles. rays from the sunrise drew forth the budsand stretched them into long stalks, lifted up sap in noiseless streams, opened petals,and sucked out scents in invisible jets and breathings. dairyman crick's household of maids and menlived on comfortably, placidly, even merrily. their position was perhaps the happiest ofall positions in the social scale, being above the line at which neediness ends, andbelow the line at which the convenances

begin to cramp natural feelings, and the stress of threadbare modishness makes toolittle of enough. thus passed the leafy time whenarborescence seems to be the one thing aimed at out of doors. tess and clare unconsciously studied eachother, ever balanced on the edge of a passion, yet apparently keeping out of it. all the while they were converging, underan irresistible law, as surely as two streams in one vale. tess had never in her recent life been sohappy as she was now, possibly never would

be so happy again. she was, for one thing, physically andmentally suited among these new surroundings. the sapling which had rooted down to apoisonous stratum on the spot of its sowing had been transplanted to a deeper soil. moreover she, and clare also, stood as yeton the debatable land between predilection and love; where no profundities have beenreached; no reflections have set in, awkwardly inquiring, "whither does this newcurrent tend to carry me? what does it mean to my future?how does it stand towards my past?"

tess was the merest stray phenomenon toangel clare as yet--a rosy, warming apparition which had only just acquired theattribute of persistence in his consciousness. so he allowed his mind to be occupied withher, deeming his preoccupation to be no more than a philosopher's regard of anexceedingly novel, fresh, and interesting specimen of womankind. they met continually; they could not helpit. they met daily in that strange and solemninterval, the twilight of the morning, in the violet or pink dawn; for it wasnecessary to rise early, so very early,

here. milking was done betimes; and before themilking came the skimming, which began at a little past three. it usually fell to the lot of some one orother of them to wake the rest, the first being aroused by an alarm-clock; and, astess was the latest arrival, and they soon discovered that she could be depended upon not to sleep though the alarm as othersdid, this task was thrust most frequently upon her. no sooner had the hour of three struck andwhizzed, than she left her room and ran to

the dairyman's door; then up the ladder toangel's, calling him in a loud whisper; then woke her fellow-milkmaids. by the time that tess was dressed clare wasdownstairs and out in the humid air. the remaining maids and the dairymanusually gave themselves another turn on the pillow, and did not appear till a quarterof an hour later. the gray half-tones of daybreak are not thegray half-tones of the day's close, though the degree of their shade may be the same. in the twilight of the morning, light seemsactive, darkness passive; in the twilight of evening it is the darkness which isactive and crescent, and the light which is

the drowsy reverse. being so often--possibly not always bychance--the first two persons to get up at the dairy-house, they seemed to themselvesthe first persons up of all the world. in these early days of her residence heretess did not skim, but went out of doors at once after rising, where he was generallyawaiting her. the spectral, half-compounded, aqueouslight which pervaded the open mead impressed them with a feeling of isolation,as if they were adam and eve. at this dim inceptive stage of the day tessseemed to clare to exhibit a dignified largeness both of disposition and physique,an almost regnant power, possibly because

he knew that at that preternatural time hardly any woman so well endowed in personas she was likely to be walking in the open air within the boundaries of his horizon;very few in all england. fair women are usually asleep at mid-summerdawns. she was close at hand, and the rest werenowhere. the mixed, singular, luminous gloom inwhich they walked along together to the spot where the cows lay often made himthink of the resurrection hour. he little thought that the magdalen mightbe at his side. whilst all the landscape was in neutralshade his companion's face, which was the

focus of his eyes, rising above the miststratum, seemed to have a sort of phosphorescence upon it. she looked ghostly, as if she were merely asoul at large. in reality her face, without appearing todo so, had caught the cold gleam of day from the north-east; his own face, thoughhe did not think of it, wore the same aspect to her. it was then, as has been said, that sheimpressed him most deeply. she was no longer the milkmaid, but avisionary essence of woman--a whole sex condensed into one typical form.

he called her artemis, demeter, and otherfanciful names half teasingly, which she did not like because she did not understandthem. "call me tess," she would say askance; andhe did. then it would grow lighter, and herfeatures would become simply feminine; they had changed from those of a divinity whocould confer bliss to those of a being who craved it. at these non-human hours they could getquite close to the waterfowl. herons came, with a great bold noise as ofopening doors and shutters, out of the boughs of a plantation which theyfrequented at the side of the mead; or, if

already on the spot, hardily maintained their standing in the water as the pairwalked by, watching them by moving their heads round in a slow, horizontal,passionless wheel, like the turn of puppets by clockwork. they could then see the faint summer fogsin layers, woolly, level, and apparently no thicker than counterpanes, spread about themeadows in detached remnants of small extent. on the gray moisture of the grass weremarks where the cows had lain through the night--dark-green islands of dry herbagethe size of their carcasses, in the general

sea of dew. from each island proceeded a serpentinetrail, by which the cow had rambled away to feed after getting up, at the end of whichtrail they found her; the snoring puff from her nostrils, when she recognized them, making an intenser little fog of her ownamid the prevailing one. then they drove the animals back to thebarton, or sat down to milk them on the spot, as the case might require. or perhaps the summer fog was more general,and the meadows lay like a white sea, out of which the scattered trees rose likedangerous rocks.

birds would soar through it into the upperradiance, and hang on the wing sunning themselves, or alight on the wet railssubdividing the mead, which now shone like glass rods. minute diamonds of moisture from the misthung, too, upon tess's eyelashes, and drops upon her hair, like seed pearls. when the day grew quite strong andcommonplace these dried off her; moreover, tess then lost her strange and etherealbeauty; her teeth, lips, and eyes scintillated in the sunbeams and she was again the dazzlingly fair dairymaid only,who had to hold her own against the other

women of the world. about this time they would hear dairymancrick's voice, lecturing the non-resident milkers for arriving late, and speakingsharply to old deborah fyander for not washing her hands. "for heaven's sake, pop thy hands under thepump, deb! upon my soul, if the london folk onlyknowed of thee and thy slovenly ways, they'd swaller their milk and butter moremincing than they do a'ready; and that's saying a good deal." the milking progressed, till towards theend tess and clare, in common with the

rest, could hear the heavy breakfast tabledragged out from the wall in the kitchen by mrs crick, this being the invariable preliminary to each meal; the same horriblescrape accompanying its return journey when the table had been cleared. chapter xxi there was a great stir in the milk-housejust after breakfast. the churn revolved as usual, but the butterwould not come. whenever this happened the dairy wasparalyzed. squish, squash echoed the milk in the greatcylinder, but never arose the sound they

waited for. dairyman crick and his wife, the milkmaidstess, marian, retty priddle, izz huett, and the married ones from the cottages; also mrclare, jonathan kail, old deborah, and the rest, stood gazing hopelessly at the churn; and the boy who kept the horse goingoutside put on moon-like eyes to show his sense of the situation. even the melancholy horse himself seemed tolook in at the window in inquiring despair at each walk round. "'tis years since i went to conjurortrendle's son in egdon--years!" said the

dairyman bitterly."and he was nothing to what his father had been. i have said fifty times, if i have saidonce, that i don't believe in en; though 'a do cast folks' waters very true.but i shall have to go to 'n if he's alive. o yes, i shall have to go to 'n, if thissort of thing continnys!" even mr clare began to feel tragical at thedairyman's desperation. "conjuror fall, t'other side ofcasterbridge, that they used to call 'wide- o', was a very good man when i was a boy,"said jonathan kail. "but he's rotten as touchwood by now."

"my grandfather used to go to conjurormynterne, out at owlscombe, and a clever man a' were, so i've heard grandf'er say,"continued mr crick. "but there's no such genuine folk aboutnowadays!" mrs crick's mind kept nearer to the matterin hand. "perhaps somebody in the house is in love,"she said tentatively. "i've heard tell in my younger days thatthat will cause it. why, crick--that maid we had years ago, doye mind, and how the butter didn't come then--""ah yes, yes!--but that isn't the rights o't.

it had nothing to do with the love-making.i can mind all about it--'twas the damage to the churn."he turned to clare. "jack dollop, a 'hore's-bird of a fellow wehad here as milker at one time, sir, courted a young woman over at mellstock,and deceived her as he had deceived many afore. but he had another sort o' woman to reckonwi' this time, and it was not the girl herself. one holy thursday of all days in thealmanack, we was here as we mid be now, only there was no churning in hand, when wezid the girl's mother coming up to the

door, wi' a great brass-mounted umbrella in her hand that would ha' felled an ox, andsaying 'do jack dollop work here?--because i want him!i have a big bone to pick with he, i can assure 'n!' and some way behind her mother walkedjack's young woman, crying bitterly into her handkercher.'o lard, here's a time!' said jack, looking out o' winder at 'em. 'she'll murder me!where shall i get--where shall i--? don't tell her where i be!'

and with that he scrambled into the churnthrough the trap-door, and shut himself inside, just as the young woman's motherbusted into the milk-house. 'the villain--where is he?' says she. 'i'll claw his face for'n, let me onlycatch him!' well, she hunted about everywhere,ballyragging jack by side and by seam, jack lying a'most stifled inside the churn, andthe poor maid--or young woman rather-- standing at the door crying her eyes out. i shall never forget it, never!'twould have melted a marble stone! but she couldn't find him nowhere at all."the dairyman paused, and one or two words

of comment came from the listeners. dairyman crick's stories often seemed to beended when they were not really so, and strangers were betrayed into prematureinterjections of finality; though old friends knew better. the narrator went on--"well, how the old woman should have had the wit to guess it i could never tell, butshe found out that he was inside that there churn. without saying a word she took hold of thewinch (it was turned by handpower then), and round she swung him, and jack began toflop about inside.

'o lard! stop the churn! let me out!' sayshe, popping out his head. 'i shall be churned into a pummy!'(he was a cowardly chap in his heart, as such men mostly be). 'not till ye make amends for ravaging hervirgin innocence!' says the old woman. 'stop the churn you old witch!' screams he. 'you call me old witch, do ye, youdeceiver!' says she, 'when ye ought to ha' been calling me mother-law these last fivemonths!' and on went the churn, and jack's bonesrattled round again. well, none of us ventured to interfere; andat last 'a promised to make it right wi'

'yes--i'll be as good as my word!' he said.and so it ended that day." while the listeners were smiling theircomments there was a quick movement behind their backs, and they looked round. tess, pale-faced, had gone to the door."how warm 'tis to-day!" she said, almost inaudibly. it was warm, and none of them connected herwithdrawal with the reminiscences of the dairyman.he went forward and opened the door for her, saying with tender raillery-- "why, maidy" (he frequently, withunconscious irony, gave her this pet name),

"the prettiest milker i've got in my dairy;you mustn't get so fagged as this at the first breath of summer weather, or we shall be finely put to for want of 'ee by dog-days, shan't we, mr clare?" "i was faint--and--i think i am better outo' doors," she said mechanically; and disappeared outside. fortunately for her the milk in therevolving churn at that moment changed its squashing for a decided flick-flack."'tis coming!" cried mrs crick, and the attention of all was called off from tess. that fair sufferer soon recovered herselfexternally; but she remained much depressed

all the afternoon. when the evening milking was done she didnot care to be with the rest of them, and went out of doors, wandering along she knewnot whither. she was wretched--o so wretched--at theperception that to her companions the dairyman's story had been rather a humorousnarration than otherwise; none of them but herself seemed to see the sorrow of it; to a certainty, not one knew how cruelly ittouched the tender place in her experience. the evening sun was now ugly to her, like agreat inflamed wound in the sky. only a solitary cracked-voice reed-sparrowgreeted her from the bushes by the river,

in a sad, machine-made tone, resemblingthat of a past friend whose friendship she had outworn. in these long june days the milkmaids, and,indeed, most of the household, went to bed at sunset or sooner, the morning workbefore milking being so early and heavy at a time of full pails. tess usually accompanied her fellowsupstairs. to-night, however, she was the first to goto their common chamber; and she had dozed when the other girls came in. she saw them undressing in the orange lightof the vanished sun, which flushed their

forms with its colour; she dozed again, butshe was reawakened by their voices, and quietly turned her eyes towards them. neither of her three chamber-companions hadgot into bed. they were standing in a group, in theirnightgowns, barefooted, at the window, the last red rays of the west still warmingtheir faces and necks and the walls around them. all were watching somebody in the gardenwith deep interest, their three faces close together: a jovial and round one, a paleone with dark hair, and a fair one whose tresses were auburn.

"don't push!you can see as well as i," said retty, the auburn-haired and youngest girl, withoutremoving her eyes from the window. "'tis no use for you to be in love with himany more than me, retty priddle," said jolly-faced marian, the eldest, slily."his thoughts be of other cheeks than thine!" retty priddle still looked, and the otherslooked again. "there he is again!" cried izz huett, thepale girl with dark damp hair and keenly cut lips. "you needn't say anything, izz," answeredretty.

"for i zid you kissing his shade.""what did you see her doing?" asked marian. "why--he was standing over the whey-tub tolet off the whey, and the shade of his face came upon the wall behind, close to izz,who was standing there filling a vat. she put her mouth against the wall andkissed the shade of his mouth; i zid her, though he didn't.""o izz huett!" said marian. a rosy spot came into the middle of izzhuett's cheek. "well, there was no harm in it," shedeclared, with attempted coolness. "and if i be in love wi'en, so is retty,too; and so be you, marian, come to that." marian's full face could not blush past itschronic pinkness.

"i!" she said. "what a tale!ah, there he is again! dear eyes--dear face--dear mr clare!""there--you've owned it!" "so have you--so have we all," said marian,with the dry frankness of complete indifference to opinion. "it is silly to pretend otherwise amongstourselves, though we need not own it to other folks.i would just marry 'n to-morrow!" "so would i--and more," murmured izz huett. "and i too," whispered the more timidretty.

the listener grew warm."we can't all marry him," said izz. "we shan't, either of us; which is worsestill," said the eldest. "there he is again!"they all three blew him a silent kiss. "why?" asked retty quickly. "because he likes tess durbeyfield best,"said marian, lowering her voice. "i have watched him every day, and havefound it out." there was a reflective silence. "but she don't care anything for 'n?" atlength breathed retty. "well--i sometimes think that too.""but how silly all this is!" said izz huett

impatiently. "of course he won't marry any one of us, ortess either--a gentleman's son, who's going to be a great landowner and farmer abroad!more likely to ask us to come wi'en as farm-hands at so much a year!" one sighed, and another sighed, andmarian's plump figure sighed biggest of all.somebody in bed hard by sighed too. tears came into the eyes of retty priddle,the pretty red-haired youngest--the last bud of the paridelles, so important in thecounty annals. they watched silently a little longer,their three faces still close together as

before, and the triple hues of their hairmingling. but the unconscious mr clare had goneindoors, and they saw him no more; and, the shades beginning to deepen, they crept intotheir beds. in a few minutes they heard him ascend theladder to his own room. marian was soon snoring, but izz did notdrop into forgetfulness for a long time. retty priddle cried herself to sleep. the deeper-passioned tess was very far fromsleeping even then. this conversation was another of the bitterpills she had been obliged to swallow that day.

scarce the least feeling of jealousy arosein her breast. for that matter she knew herself to havethe preference. being more finely formed, better educated,and, though the youngest except retty, more woman than either, she perceived that onlythe slightest ordinary care was necessary for holding her own in angel clare's heartagainst these her candid friends. but the grave question was, ought she to dothis? there was, to be sure, hardly a ghost of achance for either of them, in a serious sense; but there was, or had been, a chanceof one or the other inspiring him with a passing fancy for her, and enjoying the

pleasure of his attentions while he stayedhere. such unequal attachments had led tomarriage; and she had heard from mrs crick that mr clare had one day asked, in alaughing way, what would be the use of his marrying a fine lady, and all the while ten thousand acres of colonial pasture to feed,and cattle to rear, and corn to reap. a farm-woman would be the only sensiblekind of wife for him. but whether mr clare had spoken seriouslyor not, why should she, who could never conscientiously allow any man to marry hernow, and who had religiously determined that she never would be tempted to do so,

draw off mr clare's attention from otherwomen, for the brief happiness of sunning herself in his eyes while he remained attalbothays? chapter xxii they came downstairs yawning next morning;but skimming and milking were proceeded with as usual, and they went indoors tobreakfast. dairyman crick was discovered stampingabout the house. he had received a letter, in which acustomer had complained that the butter had a twang. "and begad, so 't have!" said the dairyman,who held in his left hand a wooden slice on

which a lump of butter was stuck."yes--taste for yourself!" several of them gathered round him; and mrclare tasted, tess tasted, also the other indoor milkmaids, one or two of themilking-men, and last of all mrs crick, who came out from the waiting breakfast-table. there certainly was a twang. the dairyman, who had thrown himself intoabstraction to better realize the taste, and so divine the particular species ofnoxious weed to which it appertained, suddenly exclaimed-- "'tis garlic! and i thought there wasn't ablade left in that mead!"

then all the old hands remembered that acertain dry mead, into which a few of the cows had been admitted of late, had, inyears gone by, spoilt the butter in the same way. the dairyman had not recognized the tasteat that time, and thought the butter bewitched."we must overhaul that mead," he resumed; "this mustn't continny!" all having armed themselves with oldpointed knives, they went out together. as the inimical plant could only be presentin very microscopic dimensions to have escaped ordinary observation, to find itseemed rather a hopeless attempt in the

stretch of rich grass before them. however, they formed themselves into line,all assisting, owing to the importance of the search; the dairyman at the upper endwith mr clare, who had volunteered to help; then tess, marian, izz huett, and retty; then bill lewell, jonathan, and the marrieddairywomen--beck knibbs, with her wooly black hair and rolling eyes; and flaxenfrances, consumptive from the winter damps of the water-meads--who lived in theirrespective cottages. with eyes fixed upon the ground they creptslowly across a strip of the field, returning a little further down in such amanner that, when they should have

finished, not a single inch of the pasture but would have fallen under the eye of someone of them. it was a most tedious business, not morethan half a dozen shoots of garlic being discoverable in the whole field; yet suchwas the herb's pungency that probably one bite of it by one cow had been sufficient to season the whole dairy's produce for theday. differing one from another in natures andmoods so greatly as they did, they yet formed, bending, a curiously uniform row--automatic, noiseless; and an alien observer passing down the neighbouring lane might

well have been excused for massing them as"hodge". as they crept along, stooping low todiscern the plant, a soft yellow gleam was reflected from the buttercups into theirshaded faces, giving them an elfish, moonlit aspect, though the sun was pouring upon their backs in all the strength ofnoon. angel clare, who communistically stuck tohis rule of taking part with the rest in everything, glanced up now and then. it was not, of course, by accident that hewalked next to tess. "well, how are you?" he murmured."very well, thank you, sir," she replied

demurely. as they had been discussing a score ofpersonal matters only half-an-hour before, the introductory style seemed a littlesuperfluous. but they got no further in speech justthen. they crept and crept, the hem of herpetticoat just touching his gaiter, and his elbow sometimes brushing hers. at last the dairyman, who came next, couldstand it no longer. "upon my soul and body, this here stoopingdo fairly make my back open and shut!" he exclaimed, straightening himself slowlywith an excruciated look till quite

upright. "and you, maidy tess, you wasn't well a dayor two ago--this will make your head ache finely!don't do any more, if you feel fainty; leave the rest to finish it." dairyman crick withdrew, and tess droppedbehind. mr clare also stepped out of line, andbegan privateering about for the weed. when she found him near her, her verytension at what she had heard the night before made her the first to speak."don't they look pretty?" she said. "who?"

"izzy huett and retty."tess had moodily decided that either of these maidens would make a good farmer'swife, and that she ought to recommend them, and obscure her own wretched charms. "pretty?well, yes--they are pretty girls--fresh looking.i have often thought so." "though, poor dears, prettiness won't lastlong!" "o no, unfortunately.""they are excellent dairywomen." "yes: though not better than you." "they skim better than i.""do they?"

clare remained observing them--not withouttheir observing him. "she is colouring up," continued tessheroically. "who?""retty priddle." "oh! why it that?""because you are looking at her." self-sacrificing as her mood might be, tesscould not well go further and cry, "marry one of them, if you really do want adairywoman and not a lady; and don't think of marrying me!" she followed dairyman crick, and had themournful satisfaction of seeing that clare

remained behind. from this day she forced herself to takepains to avoid him--never allowing herself, as formerly, to remain long in his company,even if their juxtaposition were purely accidental. she gave the other three every chance. tess was woman enough to realize from theiravowals to herself that angel clare had the honour of all the dairymaids in hiskeeping, and her perception of his care to avoid compromising the happiness of either in the least degree bred a tender respectin tess for what she deemed, rightly or

wrongly, the self-controlling sense of dutyshown by him, a quality which she had never expected to find in one of the opposite sex, and in the absence of which more thanone of the simple hearts who were his house-mates might have gone weeping on herpilgrimage. chapter xxiii the hot weather of july had crept upon themunawares, and the atmosphere of the flat vale hung heavy as an opiate over thedairy-folk, the cows, and the trees. hot steaming rains fell frequently, makingthe grass where the cows fed yet more rank, and hindering the late hay-making in theother meads.

it was sunday morning; the milking wasdone; the outdoor milkers had gone home. tess and the other three were dressingthemselves rapidly, the whole bevy having agreed to go together to mellstock church,which lay some three or four miles distant from the dairy-house. she had now been two months at talbothays,and this was her first excursion. all the preceding afternoon and night heavythunderstorms had hissed down upon the meads, and washed some of the hay into theriver; but this morning the sun shone out all the more brilliantly for the deluge,and the air was balmy and clear. the crooked lane leading from their ownparish to mellstock ran along the lowest

levels in a portion of its length, and whenthe girls reached the most depressed spot they found that the result of the rain had been to flood the lane over-shoe to adistance of some fifty yards. this would have been no serious hindranceon a week-day; they would have clicked through it in their high patterns and bootsquite unconcerned; but on this day of vanity, this sun's-day, when flesh went forth to coquet with flesh whilehypocritically affecting business with spiritual things; on this occasion forwearing their white stockings and thin shoes, and their pink, white, and lilac

gowns, on which every mud spot would bevisible, the pool was an awkward impediment.they could hear the church-bell calling--as yet nearly a mile off. "who would have expected such a rise in theriver in summer-time!" said marian, from the top of the roadside bank on which theyhad climbed, and were maintaining a precarious footing in the hope of creeping along its slope till they were past thepool. "we can't get there anyhow, without walkingright through it, or else going round the turnpike way; and that would make us sovery late!" said retty, pausing hopelessly.

"and i do colour up so hot, walking intochurch late, and all the people staring round," said marian, "that i hardly cooldown again till we get into the that-it- may-please-thees." while they stood clinging to the bank theyheard a splashing round the bend of the road, and presently appeared angel clare,advancing along the lane towards them through the water. four hearts gave a big throbsimultaneously. his aspect was probably as un-sabbatarian aone as a dogmatic parson's son often presented; his attire being his dairyclothes, long wading boots, a cabbage-leaf

inside his hat to keep his head cool, witha thistle-spud to finish him off. "he's not going to church," said marian."no--i wish he was!" murmured tess. angel, in fact, rightly or wrongly (toadopt the safe phrase of evasive controversialists), preferred sermons instones to sermons in churches and chapels on fine summer days. this morning, moreover, he had gone out tosee if the damage to the hay by the flood was considerable or not. on his walk he observed the girls from along distance, though they had been so occupied with their difficulties of passageas not to notice him.

he knew that the water had risen at thatspot, and that it would quite check their progress. so he had hastened on, with a dim idea ofhow he could help them--one of them in particular. the rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed quartetlooked so charming in their light summer attire, clinging to the roadside bank likepigeons on a roof-slope, that he stopped a moment to regard them before coming close. their gauzy skirts had brushed up from thegrass innumerable flies and butterflies which, unable to escape, remained caged inthe transparent tissue as in an aviary.

angel's eye at last fell upon tess, thehindmost of the four; she, being full of suppressed laughter at their dilemma, couldnot help meeting his glance radiantly. he came beneath them in the water, whichdid not rise over his long boots; and stood looking at the entrapped flies andbutterflies. "are you trying to get to church?" he saidto marian, who was in front, including the next two in his remark, but avoiding tess."yes, sir; and 'tis getting late; and my colour do come up so--" "i'll carry you through the pool--everyjill of you." the whole four flushed as if one heart beatthrough them.

"i think you can't, sir," said marian. "it is the only way for you to get past.stand still. nonsense--you are not too heavy!i'd carry you all four together. now, marian, attend," he continued, "andput your arms round my shoulders, so. now!hold on. that's well done." marian had lowered herself upon his arm andshoulder as directed, and angel strode off with her, his slim figure, as viewed frombehind, looking like the mere stem to the great nosegay suggested by hers.

they disappeared round the curve of theroad, and only his sousing footsteps and the top ribbon of marian's bonnet toldwhere they were. in a few minutes he reappeared. izz huett was the next in order upon thebank. "here he comes," she murmured, and theycould hear that her lips were dry with emotion. "and i have to put my arms round his neckand look into his face as marian did." "there's nothing in that," said tessquickly. "there's a time for everything," continuedizz, unheeding.

"a time to embrace, and a time to refrainfrom embracing; the first is now going to be mine." "fie--it is scripture, izz!""yes," said izz, "i've always a' ear at church for pretty verses." angel clare, to whom three-quarters of thisperformance was a commonplace act of kindness, now approached izz. she quietly and dreamily lowered herselfinto his arms, and angel methodically marched off with her. when he was heard returning for the thirdtime retty's throbbing heart could be

almost seen to shake her. he went up to the red-haired girl, andwhile he was seizing her he glanced at tess.his lips could not have pronounced more plainly, "it will soon be you and i." her comprehension appeared in her face; shecould not help it. there was an understanding between them. poor little retty, though by far thelightest weight, was the most troublesome of clare's burdens. marian had been like a sack of meal, a deadweight of plumpness under which he has

literally staggered.izz had ridden sensibly and calmly. retty was a bunch of hysterics. however, he got through with the disquietedcreature, deposited her, and returned. tess could see over the hedge the distantthree in a group, standing as he had placed them on the next rising ground. it was now her turn. she was embarrassed to discover thatexcitement at the proximity of mr clare's breath and eyes, which she had contemned inher companions, was intensified in herself; and as if fearful of betraying her secret,she paltered with him at the last moment.

"i may be able to clim' along the bankperhaps--i can clim' better than they. you must be so tired, mr clare!" "no, no, tess," said he quickly.and almost before she was aware, she was seated in his arms and resting against hisshoulder. "three leahs to get one rachel," hewhispered. "they are better women than i," shereplied, magnanimously sticking to her resolve. "not to me," said angel.he saw her grow warm at this; and they went some steps in silence."i hope i am not too heavy?" she said

timidly. "o no.you should lift marian! such a lump.you are like an undulating billow warmed by the sun. and all this fluff of muslin about you isthe froth." "it is very pretty--if i seem like that toyou." "do you know that i have undergone three-quarters of this labour entirely for the sake of the fourth quarter?""no." "i did not expect such an event to-day."

"nor i...the water came up so sudden." that the rise in the water was what sheunderstood him to refer to, the state of breathing belied. clare stood still and inclinced his facetowards hers. "o tessy!" he exclaimed. the girl's cheeks burned to the breeze, andshe could not look into his eyes for her it reminded angel that he was somewhatunfairly taking advantage of an accidental position; and he went no further with it. no definite words of love had crossed theirlips as yet, and suspension at this point

was desirable now. however, he walked slowly, to make theremainder of the distance as long as possible; but at last they came to thebend, and the rest of their progress was in full view of the other three. the dry land was reached, and he set herdown. her friends were looking with roundthoughtful eyes at her and him, and she could see that they had been talking ofher. he hastily bade them farewell, and splashedback along the stretch of submerged road. the four moved on together as before, tillmarian broke the silence by saying--

"no--in all truth; we have no chanceagainst her!" she looked joylessly at tess."what do you mean?" asked the latter. "he likes 'ee best--the very best! we could see it as he brought 'ee.he would have kissed 'ee, if you had encouraged him to do it, ever so little.""no, no," said she. the gaiety with which they had set out hadsomehow vanished; and yet there was no enmity or malice between them. they were generous young souls; they hadbeen reared in the lonely country nooks where fatalism is a strong sentiment, andthey did not blame her.

such supplanting was to be. tess's heart ached. there was no concealing from herself thefact that she loved angel clare, perhaps all the more passionately from knowing thatthe others had also lost their hearts to him. there is contagion in this sentiment,especially among women. and yet that same hungry nature had foughtagainst this, but too feebly, and the natural result had followed. "i will never stand in your way, nor in theway of either of you!" she declared to

retty that night in the bedroom (her tearsrunning down). "i can't help this, my dear! i don't think marrying is in his mind atall; but if he were ever to ask me i should refuse him, as i should refuse any man.""oh! would you? why?" said wondering retty. "it cannot be!but i will be plain. putting myself quite on one side, i don'tthink he will choose either of you." "i have never expected it--thought of it!"moaned retty. "but o!i wish i was dead!"

the poor child, torn by a feeling which shehardly understood, turned to the other two girls who came upstairs just then."we be friends with her again," she said to "she thinks no more of his choosing herthan we do." so the reserve went off, and they wereconfiding and warm. "i don't seem to care what i do now," saidmarian, whose mood was turned to its lowest bass. "i was going to marry a dairyman atstickleford, who's asked me twice; but--my soul--i would put an end to myself rather'nbe his wife now! why don't ye speak, izz?"

"to confess, then," murmured izz, "i madesure to-day that he was going to kiss me as he held me; and i lay still against hisbreast, hoping and hoping, and never moved at all. but he did not.i don't like biding here at talbothays any longer!i shall go hwome." the air of the sleeping-chamber seemed topalpitate with the hopeless passion of the girls. they writhed feverishly under theoppressiveness of an emotion thrust on them by cruel nature's law--an emotion whichthey had neither expected nor desired.

the incident of the day had fanned theflame that was burning the inside of their hearts out, and the torture was almost morethan they could endure. the differences which distinguished them asindividuals were abstracted by this passion, and each was but portion of oneorganism called sex. there was so much frankness and so littlejealousy because there was no hope. each one was a girl of fair common sense,and she did not delude herself with any vain conceits, or deny her love, or giveherself airs, in the idea of outshining the the full recognition of the futility oftheir infatuation, from a social point of view; its purposeless beginning; its self-bounded outlook; its lack of everything to

justify its existence in the eye of civilization (while lacking nothing in theeye of nature); the one fact that it did exist, ecstasizing them to a killing joy--all this imparted to them a resignation, a dignity, which a practical and sordid expectation of winning him as a husbandwould have destroyed. they tossed and turned on their littlebeds, and the cheese-wring dripped monotonously downstairs. "b' you awake, tess?" whispered one, half-an-hour later. it was izz huett's voice.

tess replied in the affirmative, whereuponalso retty and marian suddenly flung the bedclothes off them, and sighed--"so be we!" "i wonder what she is like--the lady theysay his family have looked out for him!" "i wonder," said izz."some lady looked out for him?" gasped tess, starting. "i have never heard o' that!" "o yes--'tis whispered; a young lady of hisown rank, chosen by his family; a doctor of divinity's daughter near his father'sparish of emminster; he don't much care for her, they say.

but he is sure to marry her."they had heard so very little of this; yet it was enough to build up wretched dolorousdreams upon, there in the shade of the night. they pictured all the details of his beingwon round to consent, of the wedding preparations, of the bride's happiness, ofher dress and veil, of her blissful home with him, when oblivion would have fallen upon themselves as far as he and their lovewere concerned. thus they talked, and ached, and wept tillsleep charmed their sorrow away. after this disclosure tess nourished nofurther foolish thought that there lurked

any grave and deliberate import in clare'sattentions to her. it was a passing summer love of her face,for love's own temporary sake--nothing more. and the thorny crown of this sad conceptionwas that she whom he really did prefer in a cursory way to the rest, she who knewherself to be more impassioned in nature, cleverer, more beautiful than they, was in the eyes of propriety far less worthy ofhim than the homelier ones whom he ignored.

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